I am…
a Fish.
I go "Glub, glub.",
and I've never met my parents.
a Squirrel.
I hide my food
though I don't know why.
a Shark.
I'm mean and scary
but not so much as they say.
a Penguin.
I mate for life
and I hope my partner does the same.
a Monkey.
I have two thumbs
and a big brain.
a Human.
I'm a lot like the monkey
only way more anxious.
a Fish.
I go "Glub, glub.",
and I've never met my parents.
Ego
My ego called with a few questions,
if you have a quick second.
He says they’re pretty straightforward
just a quick check-in.
First off, do you think I’m attractive?
Personally, I don’t care either way.
But if you can rank me on a scale of one to ten
it’ll help keep my ego at bay.
And do you find me particularly funny
or just mildly humorous?
And when I ramble about news and politics,
do I sound smart or is that hubris?
I know these questions might seem silly,
but there’s no sense in being resistant.
If we don’t give him some answers
he’s likely to become more persistent.
My ego called with a few questions
if you have a quick second.
Passcode
I can't remember my phone's passcode.
I changed it yesterday
and chose random numbers.
Some use their birthday
but they say you shouldn't do that.
Now I'm locked out.
It's okay though.
I'll find whoever's birthday
my passcode belongs to.
And ask them when they were born.
I can't remember my phone's passcode.
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Windy
I wanted to write a poem outside,
but it’s not my fate.
The sunset is spectacular
but the wind is just too great.
The chirping birds, fresh cut grass,
and golden rays of sun
will have to go unremarked for now
As this day is almost done.
Instead I shall have to observe
with some careful wit I suppose
The comings and goings of my own home
Or I could just write prose.
But don’t despair, dear reader
for my lost noble aspirations.
Truth be told beneath the veil
lies pretentious machinations.
I wanted to write a poem outside,"
but it’s not my fate.
Yesterday and Tomorrow
Even the most beautiful flowers only bloom for a few weeks a year.
And the rest of the time?
They rest on their laurels I suppose.
Left to reminisce about the good old days.
Or psych themselves up for future Mays.
Telling all they happen to see
how cool it will be
the next time they bloom.
If only the plants could learn to live in the present.
Free from anxiety about the past
or anticipation of the future.
But they can’t.
They’re just plants.
Terribly anxious things.
Even the most beautiful flowers only bloom for a few weeks a year.
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